I was headed home, eastbound on the Ballona Creek bike path, and pedaling hard down an underpass below Lincoln Blvd. On the north side of that certain stretch is a concrete embankment, and on any given weekend you'll find skateboarders and freestyle bike riders carving turns up and down its face.
About twenty yards out, a group of young, slow-pedaling beach-goers approached from the opposite direction. One of them, a twenty-something dude with a boogie board slung over his shoulder, teetered up and down the embankment. He floated into my lane about ten yards away, completely oblivious.
"Whoa! Whoa!" I yelled.
I squeezed the handbrakes, but it was too late. We collided and I was thrown into a guard rail. I crumpled over the handlebars and my helmet and the right side of my face cracked the metal railing as I fell to the concrete. Blood poured from... somewhere.
"Are you okay, man?" the guy asked.
"Do I look okay?" I yelled.
I twisted my head to the left, then right, and gave my arms and legs a once over. Nothing broken. Blood was dripping and soaking into my tank top and shoes. I noticed more oozing from scrapes on the back of my right hand and my knee.
A young woman in his group rushed over to me, pouring water on some wet wipes. She looked up at a large gash above my right eye, wincing.
"That's gonna need stitches," she said, shaking her head, and gently pressing the wet wipes to my face. I felt my left shoulder pop out, then back into the socket.
This weekly bike ride has been my respite. My release. A way to work out the body and recharge the spirit. Earbuds in, beats pumping. Clean air and the cool ocean breeze.
It was almost three years ago and I was feeling stuck. Hated the job. Felt tired all the time. Uninspired and completely tapped out. "You should go on a bike ride," Sevenju would say. She would say that a lot. She even took my bike in to get tuned-up without me asking. I must have let it sit out in the tool shed for at least a month before I think she finally had enough.
"I'm taking the kids out. You should go." She sounded serious.
Why is it so hard to take that first step out of the muck of self-pity?
I hopped on my old Raleigh and made my way down the steep incline to meet the bike path along the north bank of Ballona Creek. The rush of wind in my face was instantly invigorating. Calming. Healing.
For the next 45 minutes, I pushed west, under the concrete overpasses, past the housing projects and restored wetlands until I eventually hit the Pacific.
Once you reach the beach, it's like your whole field of vision opens up and you're swallowed by this expanse of sand, sky, and saltwater. My mind emptied, leaving only the awareness of just how narrow, how shallow my perspective had become.
Since that first excursion three years ago, I've only missed a handful of these weekend rides. And the effect has been transformative. Life changing.
The dude - unscathed, of course - walked me and my bike up the embankment, sat me down on the concrete, and gave me his bottle of water. I could tell he felt bad, genuinely. He typed his name, address, and phone number into my iPhone, and asked that I call him.
"Just let me know you're okay," he said. "And I'll pay for your bike if it needs to get fixed." I reached up to give him a "we're good" handshake. He waited with me until Sevenju picked me up in the car.
Four hours later, I came out of the ER stitched, scraped, bruised, but okay.
As I fell asleep that night, a couple pain-killers and a muscle relaxant down, a memory surfaced. Somewhere around puberty, I started taking these long solo bike rides around the foothills of Sierra Madre, where my mom lived. I'd get lost in the steep winding canyons to eventually find my way back home before night fell. I remember this feeling of emptiness. Of stillness. Of quiet and possibility.
Maybe that's the feeling I'm chasing on these weekly bike rides. Maybe it's just the endorphins.
Luckily, except for a couple dings, the bike wasn't damaged. "Why don't you just go for a hike," Sevenju said when I told her I was planning to get back on the bike this weekend.
Don't get me wrong. I have no problem taking it easy after an injury. My flirtation with longboard skateboarding lasted all of two months, ending the exact moment I fell off and broke my collarbone.
But I guess that's the thing. When you find something that you love to do, something that's yours, something that keeps you in touch with your core, your center, no matter how trivial it might seem...
You do it.
